


late for this, that & the love of my life

by softsocky



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, have you noticed im a sucker for high school au's yet?, i guess maybe but lovers is a bit......extra, i have no idea what to tag this, ok, yikes the others aren't even mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 13:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: Sanha falls a little bit in love with the boy who falls asleep on the bus in the morning.





	late for this, that & the love of my life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vonseal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonseal/gifts).



> anyways, so, i love the lumineers a lot, so this title is from their song 'cleopatra'. it holds like, zero relevance to this story, i just liked it lmao. [give it a listen here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZ3bWFao05k&index=20&list=PLAOPuyoIV6u7SzpB618QDV2bSHhdjdQ3a)  
> ALSO!!! this is inspired basically, entirely, on that video (which i cant find fml) of rocky saying sanha has to wake him up on the way to school....and then i twisted it into an au bc i hate myself anyways here u go enjoy

The bus route Sanha took each morning ran for forty-five-minutes, and bypassed five major high schools along its way. The lengthy trip meant that most mornings he could shut his eyes for a quick power nap; meant that time would pass by that much quicker. It wasn’t that he had any overwhelming desire to get to school any sooner than normal – it was just that it was easy to get sick of cramped spaces and unpleasant body odours which often coincided with Seoul’s public transport system.

Napping was risky though, because there’s the off chance you won’t wake up in time and you’ll miss your stop. If that’s the case, it’s difficult to find your way back unless you know the backstreets of Seoul incredibly well, so Sanha had gotten into the habit of resting with one eye open. As what some may call an _over achiever_ , he never wanted to miss his stop – it was humiliating, because it was obvious you had gotten off at the wrong stop, the wrong _school_ , because your uniform was _different_ – and he never wanted to face the consequences for missing school, either.

The education system was tough enough as it was, and Sanha already put in an unimaginable number of hours inside and outside of school to get the grades he has now. On top of that, attendance also meant more than it probably should. Thus, if Sanha were to miss any classes, not only would he miss critical content, but he would also lose out on essential participation marks. That was something Sanha – seventeen years old and very much interested in furthering his education after high school – would not risk losing.

So, here he sat – a few seats from the front, his usual spot – with his backpack on the seat beside him to avoid strangers sitting by him, with his ear buds in and thermos in hand. The thermos was now half-empty, and the coffee that remained there would surely be gone by the time the bus stopped at his school in twenty-three minutes (if traffic permitted). One of the worst parts of bussing to school – surprisingly, Sanha can look past the awful smells, the weird sticky substances on the handrails, the lack of personal space – was the fact that the five major high schools on this route meant there was rarely any seats. If you were lucky enough to be a long-time user of the bus – Sanha himself included in this category, along with eight other distinguished students – you were automatically granted a full seat. Sanha had taken this particular journey since he was eight years old, as it allowed him to get off close to his primary school. And as such, meant he had accumulated enough time on the route to earn himself the cab-like seat four rows behind the driver’s seat.

At first, he used to feel bad about have a double set of seats to himself, especially considering people around him were standing. Back in the day, when he’d been granted the privilege – to this day, he’s still not really sure _who_ granted it, just that one day he sat down, and no one ever sat beside him again – he used to pat the seat for people to sit next to him. After a while though, he started to realise how much better it was to have a vacant seat beside you, especially in the mornings. It meant he could stretch his (annoyingly) long legs and arms out around him, without having to worry about another passenger.

With the amount of time he had spent on this bus, people became comfortably familiar. Sanha had learned where the bus would stop, how many would get on and off, and there were even a few students from different schools that he’d call acquaintances, as more often than not, he sees them more than some of his friends. Therefore, it’s surprising when unfamiliar faces appear, because it’s something new and interesting to keep him distracted (and awake) for his part of the journey.

Just like now, it seemed.

The bus stopped at one of its usual spots – outside of a 24-hour convenience store – and Sanha knew that at this stop, seven students would get on. Three would be from his own school, though they were all the year below him, so he knew faces but not _names._ The remaining for were split between one other private school and a public school, though both wore fitted uniforms and were at times undistinguishable from one another. Today though, eight people boarded the bus.

It wasn’t necessarily _uncommon_ for there to be the occasional addition to what some would call the _bus family_. Sometimes, friends stayed over and took the bus with their school mates; or maybe their car had broken down; or maybe their parents couldn’t take them that day. Whatever the reason, new faces did appear – and they disappeared just as quick. However, this eighth person caught his attention unlike all those other had before.

Sanha wasn’t entirely sure what caught his attention first. Not sure if it was one identifiable feature, or the accumulation of them all together. He assumes the last, because trying to find the exact line or accentuation of his face that had drawn him in seemed impossible. In the few steps that it takes for the eighth passenger to get to the handrails by his side, Sanha has already fallen in love with his tired eyes, the black bags underneath them, and the way his lips tug naturally upwards at the edges the littlest bit. Sanha thinks he’s downright beautiful, but more than that, Sanha thinks he looks _exhausted._

Sanha knows the feeling of being tired. Knows what it’s like to pull an all-nighter in order to get an essay done, or worse than that, an entire research assignment which should have been started three weeks ago. He knows tired because back when he was learning to play the guitar, he was also knee-deep in after school vocal lessons, as well as trying to remain top of all his classes. This look though, the expression the boy wore – _beautifully_ – was exhaustion. Exhaustion was, quite obviously, different to being just tired. Exhaustion was more of an accumulation of more than the physical. Exhaustion was more than early starts and late finishes; was more than a few all-nighters and ran deeper than skin. Exhaustion ate away at your bones at the same time it ate away your sanity. The craziness one felt was ghostly, made them feel like they were constantly sleepwalking, but without any of the benefits _sleep_ actually provided. Exhaustion became more of an emotion than a momentary condition, and no amount of sleep could really cure it if the mind had been infected by it long enough. It was one of those things that couldn’t really be cured at all unless the individual themselves pursued long enough to drag themselves out of it. Although sleep didn’t _cure_ it, it did definitely weaken the side effects. Made the edges a little less sharp; made the knife slice rather than stab. It didn’t necessarily mean it _sucked_ any less, just meant that it was a little clearer – and perhaps easier – to see all the suck that accumulated before you.

Which was why Sanha felt remorse for the boy now, who slouched against the handrail of the bus, who obviously knew the rules that applied to Sanha and the other students greedily hogging a whole row of seats. Sanha, for some reason, felt that churn of guilt in his stomach, felt it web its way up his oesophagus, edging its way to the tip of his tongue. Just when he thought he was about to ask the boy if he’d like to sit down, the bus arrived at its next stop – and the beautiful, sleepy boy was pushed further to the back of the bus as ten new students climbed aboard.

Later that morning, when the bus stopped out the front of his school, he glanced back over his shoulder. He had hoped to maybe see the boy, but he already knew from his uniform that he’d be gone, his stop having been one or two before Sanha’s own. Sanha thought about him for the rest of the morning, and well into the afternoon, too.

 

When the boy climbs on the bus the next day, Sanha feels more frazzled than usual at having a newcomer. Additions to their bus family were welcomed wholeheartedly so long as you weren’t an asshole, and this boy was so quiet and took up hardly any space that he would fit in so easily – but still, Sanha felt _frazzled._ He was confused at his own reaction. He didn’t understand why he was so perplexed, so enraptured by the drowsy boy – why _he_ in particular had caught his attention more than anyone else ever had. He supposes it’s because the boy is unfairly attractive – unusually so, and more unusual that no one else seemed to be having breathing problems whilst looking at him – but it could also be because Sanha feels the tiniest bit _protective_ of him. He used to have that layer of exhaustion stick to his skin like the muck sticks to the bus handles, and he knows how difficult it can be to peel it off. That was likely to be it, and the addition of his highly unique and memorable features weren’t a big help.

It wasn’t that it was annoying him, the attention the boy drew, it just a huge inconvenience to him. Sanha should be spending this time finishing his coffee before it goes cold, or sleeping with one eye open, or, better yet, reading over some of his notes. Now though, only two days in, Sanha find himself more focused on the barely-there boy more than any school work before. The boy commands attention without even needing too, and Sanha knew that if he were able to draw his eyes away from him for a just a moment, he’d know how _creepy_ he was being, how _weird,_ and how a lot of girls were giggling around him whilst watching the private-school boy falling asleep against the yellow pole.

Sanha had to bite his tongue again today, to stop himself throwing out the invitation for the boy to sit. He did so because it was a selfish habit to not extend the invitation anymore. The comfortability of sitting lonesome well and truly getting to his head. No matter how badly he wanted the boy to _sit down_ , Sanha also was extremely greedy – and would remain so, at least for the remained of the bus ride. When the boys stop arrives, Sanha definitely doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief.

 

Today, Sanha (not so) surreptitiously watches the boy out on the street as the bus doors open to allow the students on. He continues to watch him for the entire bus ride, and he supposes at one point the boy suspects as such, because his eyes flicker southwards to where Sanha was sitting. Before they could meet eyes, though, Sanha had already forced himself to look away – out the window to his side, pretending he’d been looking there the entire time. He tries to focus more on his music, the lyrics zorbing through his mind, but he finds himself struggling. Before the boy had ever stepped foot on the bus, Sanha never found focusing on his music a challenge. Sanha _lived_ for music, it was his greatest passion, so to be somewhat _bothered_ , or at least, _sick_ of it – really was, truth be told, _terrifying._

And it was all because of _this_ boy. The one with pretty brown hair and blonde undertones; with a lopsided grin that was permanently on his face, so Sanha knew it to be one that sat there naturally; deliciously dark brown eyes, the colour of his long black in his thermos; noticeably muscular legs in his school trousers, paired with delicate, small hands. _This boy_ who Sanha knew nothing about, other than the fact he wore exhaustion unfairly well (and who would, no doubt, wear everything else unfairly well, too) and went to a private school Sanha could only ever dream of attending. He didn’t even know his name, nor his age – didn’t even know if he liked _boys_ like that, like Sanha did. Didn’t know if the boy had even really noticed him sitting there, but if by the odd chance he _had_ , what did he think of Sanha? If he was straight, or just generally _not interested_ , then Sanha already knew his answer. If otherwise, Sanha desperately wished to know – but, of course, like most people with insecurities on any area of the spectrum, desperately wished _not_ to know, too.

As usual, he was slouched against the railing, holding the rail by both hands. His eyes were blinking dangerously slow, and Sanha recognised that feeling – knew the boy’s eyelids were painfully heavy, and that he was _this close_ to succumbing to them. The logical part of him knew, though, that if he surrendered, he would either make a fool of himself falling down, or a fool of himself by missing his stop. And yet still, each morning the boy boarded the bus, shoulders slouched and eyes dark, Sanha could not stop the gurgling and the acidic taste of guilt in his mouth.

 

On Monday, a week after first seeing the boy board the bus, Sanha decides to make himself _known._ Or rather, make his vacant seat _known._

Sanha sits at his designated seat until a few seconds before the exhausted boys stop. When the driver pulls up at the location, he sees the boy standing behind all the others waiting to board. His hair is flapping in the wind, exposing the clear expanse of his forehead which sat hidden underneath, and with his hands shoved deep inside his trouser pockets. Sanha briefly noted how _glowy_ the boy looked in the morning sun, how _radiant_ , even, and even looked quite as bright as the sun overhead, despite his seemingly permanent lopsided frown.

Sanha realises he has to time this quite perfectly, because anything less would result in the complete opposite effect.

When the boy boards the bus, bus card outstretched to the scanner, Sanha leaps up from his seat. He drags his satchel with him, ensuring that no other personal belongings remained on the seat, and leant back against the handrail that the boy himself usually positioned himself at. The other students had already passed his seat at this point, so they hadn’t noticed him vacating his seat – if they had, they’d no doubt _claim_ it. He sees the very moment that the sleepy boy notices the empty seat – sees the tiny glisten of hope there, but also sees it fade as quickly as it came. He stops at the entrance to the bus, and Sanha briefly drags his eyes away from the boy to watch the world outside. He didn’t want to come across as desperate, or _needy_ , at least, not any more than usual. But he could still see, out the corner of his eye, his empty cab seat. Could see that even after the bus had started moving, the boy did not claim it. Instead, he stood right at the front, leaning against an entirely new handrail.

Sanha felt defeated, though his reason felt silly. Perhaps the boy preferred to stand? Some people did, even if their journey _was_ particularly long. Maybe he belonged to the small proportion of people who enjoyed the moveability of standing. Sanha, however, found this increasingly unlikely as days more days passed without the boy claiming the seat, because as time went on, the more exhausted the boy became. Sanha wanted nothing more than to tuck the boy into his bed and let him sleep for forty hours straight. That was unlikely to ever happen, though, so Sanha would have to settle for perhaps twenty minutes in a bus. The first step, though, was getting the boy to sit down.

 

Another week passed of this same routine until the boy finally sat down in the seat.

This morning, Sanha noticed how much _more_ exhausted than normal he looked. His bones looked almost as though they were creaking as he walked, muscles obviously tense and achy if the way the boy winced at every step had anything to say about it. It looked as if he had run a marathon, and had taken no moment to rest afterwards. Sanha obviously wasn’t aware of the boy’s extracurricular activities, so he very well _could_ have run a marathon for all he knows – Sanha just wished he’d start taking better care of himself, because he was starting to get far too invested in this non-existent relationship.

Normally, he’d stop right there, where he stood now – just tucked behind the driver’s seat, where there was a flattened section for people to drop oversized items, with extra handrails and cushioned pads for prams and wheelchairs. Today, though, he kept his eyes fixed to the ground, and kept walking. There wasn’t far for him to go. He was either going to run into Sanha and a few other passengers eventually, or he was going to sit in Sanha’s vacated seat. The moment Sanha watched him turn and flop down into his seat, was the same moment Sanha was filled with the utmost _joy_ and _pride._ Pride for a boy he didn’t even know, pride because he was finally taking the moment to sit himself down, rest his legs a little – that were, judging by the way he rubbed at his thighs now – really _were_ aching. The swell of pride in his chest didn’t falter the entire bus trip, and when the boy raised himself out of the seat to exit at his stop, Sanha couldn’t help but smile to himself.

Just when Sanha thought he was gone again for the day, Sanha saw the boy look over his shoulder as he went to step out the door. Their eyes met for the first time, and for the tiniest moment, Sanha thought he saw the boy smiling at him – but in the next moment, it was gone, as was the boy, because the bus was driving down the street away from him.

 

Sanha feels more than nervous the next day as he waits for the right stop. Now, with how much he watches the boy, he can recognise him from quite a distance. So, the giddy feeling he has fluttering away in his stomach is enough to have his hands shaking, enough to have his body bounce a little in his seat. It’s the same process as every other morning, though now Sanha doesn’t have to fear his seat being taken. People recognise him just as much as he does them, so they now realise that this is part of his process. They know that the seat is still rightfully his, despite the fact that he has vacated it. He assumes people find it obscure, especially considering his stop wasn’t for a little white yet. He assumes people find it even _more_ obscure that he allows another student to sit there, when they seemingly (truthfully) don’t know each other.

Sanha refuses to let it phase him, though, because the way the boy sinks into his old seat so comfortably it enough to make his heart squeeze, and it makes all the fear and judgement he’s had dissipate into the odorous air. Lately, he’s found himself enjoying the bus a lot more – found himself wanting to stay awake, rather than sleep, because it meant he got to have these miniscule moments with this boy. No matter how silly, how fickle and how one-sided these interactions may be, they were still _dear_ to Sanha, and as stupid as it all sounded, he treasured them.

He felt like he was doing some kind of good deed. Not in the self-righteous way one might notice themselves doing _good,_ but in the way which makes Sanha feel good for _him._ Because this boy was obviously sleep deprived, obviously over-worked and most likely under-fed, and if this tiny act Sanha does each morning can at any point alleviate some of that pain, or that discomfort? Than Sanha would do it. And he’d go out feeling good about it.

He was feeling an exorbitant amount of guilt today, though, because even from this angle – where he couldn’t see his face – he knew the boy had fallen asleep. It was obvious in the way his shoulders slumped down farther than Sanha had seen them before, something that happened when you were no longer in full control of your body. His head was limp and motionless against the grey, plastic windowsill, one that Sanha himself had leant against a million times before – knew just how uncomfortable it was, knew just how tired he had been and had not even cared that it ached. The boy was _sleeping_ , and although that in itself made Sanha feel a lot of things – including _fondness_ – he also felt sick, because the boy’s stop was just around the corner, and he was making no signs of waking up for it.

Sanha was caught in a dilemma. He knew, deep down, he should be waking the boy up. He should shake his shoulder, maybe, or even just _tap_ it. Alert him that he had to get off the bus. But that meant Sanha came across as kind of weird, first of all knowing that he had to get off the bus – even though general observation and basic skills of elimination would justify his reasoning of knowing as such – and, at the same time, knowing he was _sleeping._ One would only really notice he was asleep if they were outright watching him, which Sanha was doing – he was sure the boy had noticed this at some point, Sanha wasn’t _that_ oblivious about it – and Sanha didn’t want the boy to think poorly of him.

All that being said though, what kind of person would let someone fall into a bit of inconvenience and embarrassed to save themselves from an unjust reputation? (Many, he assumed, but he refused to be one of them). When the bus stopped, Sanha went to reach forward – to jostle the boy awake hurriedly, but then, as he went to do so, he himself was jostled. More than that, actually. It was more of a shove than a simple jostle, because Sanha found himself stumbling forwards, only just catching himself before slamming to the disgusting linoleum of the bus floor. By the time Sanha had reacquainted himself the idea of standing steadily, the bus was already well on its way to the next stop. This was something the now-awake boy had clearly come to realise, as his eyes were open and – though still cutely droopy and sleepy – laced with panic. He repeatedly hit the _stop_ button, knowing full well it would do nothing anyways, as the stops were already planned out – but he hit it anyway, frantically, and Sanha felt the guilt return in all its glory. He tucked his chin, hiding his face in shame, when the bus stopped again, refusing to meet the eyes of the boy who was causing him to _feel_ so many damn _feelings._

 

At this point, Sanha was actually getting so used to standing for extended periods of time, that he was considering giving up his seat in its entirety. In almost the same second of having that thought, he snickered – there was _no_ way that was happening. Back in the day though, he’d have laughed at that thought because _he_ didn’t want to stand. Now he laughed because that meant the nameless, sleeping boy would have nowhere to sit, because someone else would well and truly claim it before he clambered on board. It was the tiniest bit disturbing that the boy he knew nothing of – _still_ – meant more to him in his life than his own happiness did. If his friends knew that this was happening, and that he was doing this, feeling thing – hell, even _thinking_ this – they would slap him so hard ‘round the head that he’d be seeing triple for a week. (He didn’t tell his friends for this very reason, not that the really had that many, not that they were that close to him in the first place. But close enough that he’d miss them if they were _gone_ ; close enough that physical violence such as head slaps were a common occurrence if any of them did anything _remotely_ stupid. What Sanha was doing was considered _more_ than remotely stupid).

For the rest of the second week, the boy sat in Sanha’s seat – though now, he shoved his head buds deep into his ears, and even from here, Sanha could hear the faint blast of his music. He had taken to bringing his own thermos of coffee, too, which he seemed to scull the entire route. Sanha realised that the boy was trying to keep himself awake, so that he wouldn’t have a repeat of last time. The guilt – nowadays, Sanha isn’t entirely sure it ever goes away – fizzes in his gut, making itself known. Sanha grunts, quiet enough that it isn’t heard over the hum of voices, the churning of the old motor. When the boys stop turns up each morning, Sanha feels sick seeing him get up easily from his seat and stumble down the bus steps. He feels _sick_ because the boy wasn’t resting, because Sanha hadn’t the nerve to wake him up properly. Now, the boy was too terrified to even try to get any kind of shut-eye. And it was all Sanha’s fault.

 

Another week passed in the same fashion, with Sanha becoming accustomed to the boy avoiding sleep to all extents. Watched him enter the bus with a bigger and better thermos, holding twice the amount of coffee Sanha’s own did; heard him play louder music; saw him slap his thighs a bit harder. His attempts at keeping himself awake were starting to weaken; his exhaustion getting the better of him. He had to increase his methods of alertness, try keep himself sane enough to stay awake, to stay alive, even, to get through the dreaded day.

Today was one of those days where Sanha didn’t watch the boy quite so much as all the others, because he’d fallen asleep early the night before, and hadn’t caught up on his readings in History. After every page he read, he’d allow himself a few seconds to admire the side profile of the boy. Angular, yet not too sharp; soft enough to be considered _cute_ , but still boyish enough to have that masculine kind of effect. Sanha would frequently find himself lost in the crevices of the boy’s face, so indulgent they were, that Sanha would need a map to get out of there if he ever saw it up close.

The pages of his book were getting as heavy as his own eyes were, though apparently, not as heavy as the other boys. He was, from what Sanha could tell, fast asleep again. His positioning was the same, though now he looked a little more comfortable, with an arm pressed up underneath his head on the small windowsill. The cushioning of his arm would save the crick in his neck, but would, most likely, cause an ache in his arm for later. Sanha was sure he would notice it the entire school day, but maybe it was worth it if it evaporated some of the tension behind his eyelids, in his mind.

Today Sanha knew he had to wake the boy up if he slept right on through. He refused to make that same mistake, knew that maybe his nerves would get the better of him if he allowed, but knew he _couldn’t._ Because the guilt was enough to eat him alive, to destroy him – he’d hate if someone let him sleep through his stop, so why would he let it happen to anyone else? Karma worked miracles, and he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.

When he noticed the boy’s stop coming up ahead, he bookmarked his novel – something about the Trojan war, from what he could gather, but he knew he’d have to reread it again later. The boy was far too distracting – he would read the words, but they weren’t being absorbed as he’d like, as he’d needed. This was the moment where Sanha realised the boy was seriously taking over his life. His ability to focus on the important things – _his schoolwork_ – was getting harder and harder to commit to. Instead, he’d focus on the boy’s pretty eyes and pouty lips, the way the bags under his eyes would enlarge and darken as the week went by.

When the bus jolted to a stop, and the hiss of the doors opening sounded, Sanha – for the first time in a long while – forced himself to _not_ think before doing. He merely _acted_ , acted upon the scene he had constructed in his mind. He stepped forward, hand outstretched again – much like the first time he had attempted this – but also made sure to steady himself on the nearest handrail, so he had time to catch himself should anything go wrong. When his hand made contact with the boy’s shoulder, he didn’t move at first. There was a brief pause which felt like minutes long, but he knew it to be only a few milliseconds, where his hand just hovered there, fingertips tingling at the touch. He felt a little numb, awestruck, even, before the moment was gone, and he was shaking the boy awake.

The boy jumped, eyes snapping open the same time his legs sprung upwards. His bag – that had been in his lap – fell to the floor with a loud slap, and for the second time in his life, Sanha made eye contact with the sleepy boy. He really wished he knew his name – because _sleepy boy_ and _him_ and _the eighth passenger_ were starting to sound like bad sitcom names, and it was starting to get tiring all in itself even thinking of it that way.

Though Sanha knew the boy had only a few seconds to retrieve his bag from the floor and scramble over to the open door, and that any decent person would show thanks to someone for doing what they did, Sanha still flushed a deep red at the toothy smile the boy threw his way. The flush remained, too, well into the school day – so much so that his history teacher had excused him for not doing his reading, making a comment on his red cheeks, and questioned whether or not he was getting a fever. With how delirious Sanha was feeling, it wasn’t a far-fetched assumption.

 

Sanha felt giddy again the next morning, more so than usual. He knew it to be because of the boy’s megawatt smile he’d given him, the way his gums were on full show and his eyes had smiled along with the rest of his face. He felt silly with happiness because the boy had actually noticed him, had taken the time to throw smiley thanks his way, and the entire situation – though very brief and would’ve been missed had he even _blinked_ – was enough to send Sanha in a downward spiral of emotion.

He tapped away at his knees with his fingertips, playing an invisible tune, not bothering to contain his excitement. It was silly, really, considering nothing between the two boys had actually changed, per se. The boy had only just smiled at him, nothing major, but for some reason Sanha felt like the boy had proposed, or something, because he just couldn’t contain his blush nor his inaudible squeal when he saw the boy at the bus stop up ahead.

As per usual, he jumped up from his seat, vacating it for the sleepy boy. And, as usual, the boy clambered on after all other seven students, and headed straight to the seat Sanha had freed for him. The boy didn’t notice him standing there, or if he did, made no move to acknowledge him – which had hurt a little more than Sanha cared to admit, but he brushed it aside as exhausted negligence. Not everyone was as alert as morning people were. Sanha got it. He had never been a morning person, though, in all honesty, the boy was making them a little more bearable.

Again, when his stop came around, the boy was asleep against the window – and it was Sanha’s duty, as his _acquaintance?_ to awaken. Which he did with the same fervour he did the day before, throwing the unbelievably soft boy his own big smile, and was pleasantly rewarded with another. His heart stuttered in his chest though, because not only did the boy smile, but he also _waved._

 

And so, like most things on the bus, it became a pattern. A routine, of sorts. Sanha would sit for half the ride, before standing so the boy could get fifteen minutes of sleep. Then, Sanha would shake him awake. Much to his delight, he would earn himself a gummy smile and a quick wave as a reward for waking him up. This lasted for the rest of the week, and slipped well into the next one, too, and into the next. Soon, it became second nature to Sanha. The giddiness didn’t fade – no, of course not. If anything, it only got _worse_ – but he was able to contain it a bit more, able to step out of it so he didn’t come across as too eager to the boy. The routine stumbled a little though, when one evening, Sanha had a little more of an essay to write than he had originally intended. He had thought his time management skills were more advanced than this, having earnt himself a place in a number of math clubs and events over the years, and such skills were of high importance to him especially since he depended on it to do _well._ He assumes such skills weren’t running as well as they used to due to his recent…encounters with a certain sleepy bus boy, but all things considered, he was still doing fairly well. So, an all-nighter he had pulled, and he was facing the consequences for it now.

His eyelids felt unbearably heavy, like dry concrete, and opening them after blinking was getting harder and harder. He had never been particularly strong against the pull of full-blown sleep deprivation, and even the coffee in hand wasn’t offering any kind of support. Instead, all he felt was pure _dread_ for the day ahead; so much so, that not even the highlight of his morning (and at this point, entire _day_ ) was helping. In fact, Sanha had fallen asleep before he could even bring himself to move to let the boy sit down.

He was lost in a dream land, and he’s not sure for how long, when he feels a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake.  He’s tugged out of his dream – gone from recognition now – with a sharp jolt, nearly waking his head on the window painfully. He gasps, thankful he didn’t scream like he normally does when frightened, and snaps his head around to the offended who had woken him from his nap.

The anger he had felt quickly dissipated though, morphing into one of affection and something only identifiable as _fondness._ It was the sleep bus boy, the eighth passenger, and he had a lopsided little grin on his face – but it was more than his normal resting smile, too. It was one that was deliberately there, and although it was nowhere near as pretty as his gummy smile, Sanha claimed it for his own anyway. Realising, suddenly, where he was – Sanha grumbled at the boy unintelligibly.

This wasn’t _his_ stop, it was the other boys – and while the boy hadn’t said anything, he merely just waved and stepped off the bus with the other students. It took Sanha a sleepy five minutes to realise the boy had woken him up at his stop, because no one else would have woken Sanha up at _his._ The boy wanted to make sure Sanha was awake, even if it meant shaking his earlier than his stop.

Sanha cooed, earning a strange look (which he ignored) from the passenger on the other side of the row to him. He was beyond caring anymore. Strange or not, Sanha was happy and his damn _crush_ had just smiled at him and had woken him up, and _wow_ , did he love mornings sometimes.

 

 A few days later, and the boy boards the bus with another boy in tow. Sanha hadn’t exactly planned for this to ever happen, so the lurch in his stomach came at a surprise. It was a feeling very foreign to him, but Sanha wasn’t an idiot. He knew what this feeling was. The way the additional passenger was cackling loudly at something the shorter boy had said, whose own face was morphed into something so bright and lively, it had sort of made all his other smiles to Sanha seem dull. The usually sleepy boy paid no attention to him as he made his way to the seat, sat down and allowed enough space for his friend to sit beside him. The entire bus ride, they faced each other, voices too low for Sanha to pick up on any major details. Every now and then though, that same feeling would lurch and make itself very much known to him, and Sanha would curse inwardly at it.

_Jealously._

He _hated_ feeling jealous. And he had no _right_ to feel it, either. He had no ownership, or any right to feel the slightest bit possessive of the boy. But still, he was feeling it, and he was feeling it _bad._ He wanted to snatch the hand the new passenger had on the boy’s shoulder away, and replace it with his own. In actuality, he wanted the friend to get off the bus and leave, and never come back, because no matter how cruel that sounded, the sleepy boy was still very much that: _sleepy._ His bags were still big and black underneath his eyes, which were elated but still somewhat empty, as all exhausted eyes are, and while for a moment there he thought the boy may take a quick nap against the window, he doesn’t. He stays awake for his friend, laughs at the boys jokes and at hearing the beautiful twinkle that was the boys laugh, Sanha found himself forgiving the friend at being there. If he _hadn’t_ been, Sanha may never have heard the boy laugh – and it was one of the most beautiful sounds.

Sanha’s down mood was lifted, though, when the boy’s stop came into sights. They gathered up their things well before the bus had come to a stop, and were ready to clamber down the stairs. But, at the last minute, Sanha was caught staring – sort of dejectedly, actually – by the friend of the sleepy boy. His smile was small at first, sort of curious, but then it spread wider, into something much more defining. The boy was handsome, sure, Sanha found physically attractive qualities in just about everyone; but this boy had nothing on the other.

“ _You’re the bus boy_!”

Sanha hadn’t been expecting that. Neither had the shorter boy, either, who’s eyes widened in disbelief. _Bus boy?_ Sanha’s intellect was broad enough to know that _that_ was a nickname; a nickname for _him._ And that meant that the sleepy boy had mentioned him before to his friend, had established enough of a conversation to have a nickname for him. Sanha felt woozy, like at any minute he was either going to chuck or faint. Maybe both.

As the eighth passenger started pushing the ninth down the stairs, he threw an apologetic smile his way – smaller than his others, but treasured by Sanha just the same.

When they were nearly out of earshot, he heard the friend say to the boy, “wow, he really _is_ cute!”

Sanha turned away, face and ears and neck and tips of his chest going red, and missing the way the boy earned an armful of punches at the statement. Sanha surely hadn’t heard correctly – they _were_ out of earshot, as he had said.

 

And thus, the routine resumes. Weeks drift slowly into months, and Sanha’s quest at waking the boy up every morning is successful. The boy doesn’t sleep anywhere near as deeply anymore, always expecting Sanha’s touch. He wakes slowly now, less jarred, and Sanha knows it’s because he’s far more peaceful than before. The boy is no less exhausted, but his eyes seem to be livelier, and they drift over Sanha more often than before. When he climbs on the bus each morning, he now makes eye contact with Sanha – throws him a shy wave and an even shier smile, but still his teeth are all exposed and its cute and his cheeks look soft and smooth and puffy, and it takes all his strength not to reach out and run his finger along his unfairly defined cheekbone.

Sanha is finder the challenge exhausting all on its own; he’s sleeping less and his stress levels are increasing as the examination period draws nearer. He can sense the other boy feeling it, too, along with all the other students on the bus. Everyone looks a little unrulier, hair not quite so tidy, eyes blurry with sleep. Almost everyone clutched steamy cups of coffee, which acted as a way of masking the horrid smell of public transport. Instead of teenage sweat and old food, the smell of caffeine was the most dominant smell now – and Sanha definitely wasn’t complaining.

The one thing he _did_ complain about, though, was the fact that nothing had ever progressed with him and the sleepy boy. That damned eighth passenger who had caught not only his attention, but also his affections, so easily and without any effort whatsoever. Sanha felt so entirely helpless, not only for the boy, but for himself, too. He had no idea what to do with these feelings, didn’t know how to properly _feel_ them, even. All he knew was that if he didn’t do something soon, he was going to go crazy – and then the pretty student who slept against windowsills would want nothing to do with him.

 

Operation: Get Himself a Boyfriend wasn’t running quite as smoothly as he had hoped. In fact, absolutely nothing had changed since he initiated the plan in his head two weeks ago. At home, he thought it to be hard-hitting and elaborate; so much so, that it was destined to work. But instead, Sanha realised he didn’t actually have quite the amount of confidence his brain thought he had, and there was no way he was ever going to blurt out the pickup lines he had rehearsed in his head _out loud_. And definitely not to this boy, either.

He was starting to feel itchy with anxiety, wondering what to do, and how to do it, when one morning, the boy’s friend boarded the bus with him again. He looked just as tired as Sanha, though this was no match for how sleepy boy must have been feeling. He was walking stiffly again, limbs aching, expression tight and twinging upon every step. Sanha had begun to worry, and wonder, why the boy was so exhausted – and, at time, so _sore._ This wasn’t something he could obviously outright _ask_ him, but he had let his mind wander.

There were bad thoughts, at first, horrible thoughts. Thoughts that made Sanha terrified, with images of domestic violence and familial abuse tearing through his consciousness and leaving him feeling ill in his cold sweat. Another thought, though, a mildly happier one, was that the boy was a professional athlete. That would explain the muscle aches and the tiredness, the time usually spent on sleep, spent on practicing and events and then homework and study on top of that. Sanha made a promise to himself that if he ever started a conversation with the boy, he’d find out.

His friend collapsed into the seat first, something that made Sanha cringe a little. That was _his_ spot, the spot the sleepy boy would always fall back against, shut his eyes against, _wake up_ against. But instead, his friend leant against it at a sharp angle, neck tucked against the windowsill awkwardly. The other boy slipped in beside him, obviously undisturbed by his friend’s seat choice. Sanha could tell by their silence that they were half asleep already, and by the time their stop rolled around, he felt nervous at the responsibility of waking up _two_ passengers instead of his usual one.

He questioned who to wake first, but then giggled inwardly. He would, of course, not deter from tradition. _This time_ , this time things felt different. They _were_ different. Sanha had let his jealousy run dominant and primal in his blood, because it was better than feeling anger all on its lonesome. Sanha couldn’t really be trusted with his anger, because it made him make silly decisions, had him lash out with vicious words which he’d later regret. Because things were so differently, and Sanha felt strangely territorial, he reached his hand out to wake the boy – but this time, instead of shaking his shoulder, he let his finger trail along the cheekbone he’d been thinking about since the very moment he laid eyes on the boy.

The reaction was instantaneously.

It was a day for _different_ it seemed, because the moment Sanha did so, the boy’s eyes fluttered open slowly, dreamily, as if Sanha was coaxing him awake lazily. On instinct, the sat up a little straight, and smiled blindingly bright up at him. Sanha didn’t hesitate with returning one, thinking that the interaction was over, until _finally_ , he opened his mouth and—

“‘od mornin’.”

It was jumbled mess, tongue heavy with whatever sleep remained there, and Sanha was so glad he paid so much attention to the boy, because if he didn’t, he’s not entirely sure he’d have been able to decipher his words. The words, though simple and meaningless, were enough to make Sanha’s heart flutter and for his palms to sweat, to make his cheeks to turn a humiliating shade of pink. The next thing, though, was the weirdest thing to happen of all.

In retaliation to the pink flare of Sanha’s cheek, the boy below him reached out – much like he had just done – and ran his warm index finger along his own cheekbone. Though nowhere near as prominent as the boy’s own, Sanha still leant into the touch, embarrassingly so, and had even started to shut his eyes as the tantalizingly slow movement, when he heard an awkward cough off to the side.

It was startling enough to make both boys jerk away from each other, enough to make Sanha’s pink turn into a fiery red, dangerous with embarrassment from the boy’s friends expression. The sleepy boy looked alert and awake now, noticing the bus stopping at their school, and hurrying to collect his jacket and bag and phone. The friend was eyeing the two suspiciously, and Sanha couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with the eighth passenger, because he didn’t want to see whatever expression he held there. Instead, he focused on the elaborate pattern of the upholstered bus seats, the blue and yellow and black’s swirls and checks with the occasional red polka dot, hoping to find answers there, but knowing he’d find none.

When he looked up, he saw both boy’s outside, staring right back in at him. The friend wore an expression of amusement, of _knowing_ , of understanding, perhaps. The other – the boy Sanha had fantasied far too much about, for far too long – was as red as he was, he was sure of it, and his grin at Sanha wasn’t meant for him, but it was the brightest one he’d seen yet.

 

It’s the middle of the examination period, and Sanha has a headache throbbing so painfully that he isn’t entirely sure he’s alive. He doesn’t even think the smile of the sleepy boy could make this better, because his repeated lack of sleep the past week was starting to take its toll on his body. It had decided to attack his back first, then his gums – the first cramping up and making near impossible to move; the latter being something that happens whenever he’s overly stressed, ulcers appearing and skin shedding a little around his teeth. It was gross, he knew it was, and he was terrified his mouth would start bleeding at random moments, and then he’d _smile_ , and then shit would well and truly hit the fan.

He sinks down into his usual seat, mind racing at what he has to get done, what he has to _study_ and go over and practically relearn, when he finds himself drifting off to sleep against the window. The last time this happened, it had been well beyond his control – much like it is now – but he hadn’t been aware he was falling asleep then. Right now, he’s well aware, but he’s far too sleepy to do anything about it. Just as he lulls into sleep, he’s reminded of the sleepy boy, who’s probably far sleepier than he is, desperate for a fifteen-minute power nap. But Sanha can’t bring himself to open his eyes anymore, so he succumbs, falling into the willing arms of darkness.

He’s woken up a short while later by a careful jostling to his side. He groans against his arm, turning a little, cracking one eye open. He forgets where and who he is, but when he sees the body beside him, he’s quickly reminded. He’s on the bus, as usual, and it’s morning and he’s on his way to school, but he’d fallen asleep against the window before he could get up to let the sleepy boy sit – but here he was, the eighth passenger, sitting beside Sanha all on his own accord. It had never really been a thought that had occurred to Sanha, sharing the seat. It had been more of a ‘take it or leave it’ situation, where Sanha either that both seats or none at all. That was his selfishness, he guessed, his lingering greed for isolation. Not from this boy, though, not from him _ever,_ because they were staring at each other now, and his eyes were so unbearably soft, as soft as his skin, and this close up, Sanha could feel the boy’s breath against his lips.

Said lips were tingling now, and his eyes were watching the other boys, who were parted (mouth breather) and had Sanha been watching, he’d have seen the way the other boy watched _his_ lips as well. In this moment, they were both incredibly oblivious to each other’s feelings, only aware of what they felt for the other – blindly thinking the other thought very little, or nothing at all, for the other. That was what crushes _were_ , though. The thought of unworthiness, the thought process that _I_ will never been good enough for _them_ , so _I_ shall admire them (not so) secretly.

Sanha smiled at the boy now, eyes trailing up to his, melting at the life and warmth he finds there. He sinks into it, eyes droopy and heavy, and he lets himself fall back against the window in sheer delight. He didn’t know what any of this meant, the boy sitting beside him now, close enough that their thighs were touching, their feet, their _breath_. Close enough that Sanha felt safe there, not inconvenienced or annoyed, and in fact, found solace in the proximity. Here, he could smell the boy’s aftershave or cologne or maybe it was just how the boy smelt, but whatever it was, it was kind of chocolatey and minty and reminded Sanha of after-dinner mints he’d take from restaurants in handfuls as a pesky child. Again, he found himself drifting – in and out of sleep, in and out of whatever these feelings were for the boy beside him. Soon, he was asleep again, and had he been alert enough, he’d have felt the sagging of the boy beside him, head falling on his shoulder.

They both miss their stops, sleep too heavy and desperate that they don’t wake up until the very last stop – but with the boy’s head leaning against his shoulder, the weight of him against his side, his hand on his knee, Sanha realised he was never going to have to miss _this._

 

The next time it happens, it’s the very next day, and though they don’t speak _much_ , they do speak a little. Each day, Sanha waits patiently for the bus to arrive at the boy’s stop, but this time, he doesn’t move to stand up. Instead, he smiles widely at the boy as he climbs the steps of the bus, waves at him at the same moment the other does, and feels jittery with excitement as the boy walks towards him. He isn’t sure when the shift happened; when the nervousness and silence evolved into _this._ But he’s so glad it did, because now, each morning, not only does he get to look forward to his face and his smile and his little wave, he gets to listen to him speak, too, gets to see it all up _close_.  

Sanha once thought being this close to him would mean he’d need a map. He thought he’d get so lost, he’d need a guide on how to escape again. Now that he’s here, he realises he was right. But that’s the thing. He doesn’t want a map, doesn’t want a guide – because he doesn’t want to be found, doesn’t _want_ to escape. He wants nothing more than to be trapped here, beside this boy, lost in his face, for the rest of time.

After that, it keeps happening. They sit beside each other and, over time, become more comfortable. Sanha learns things, too, about himself and about his feelings, but more so about the boy.

He learns that he’s the captain of a dance team, and teaches young kids at the gymnasium, too. He learns that he wants to be a paramedic, so he’s taking all science and math classes and has been since he can remember. He learns that he has four cats at home, a parrot, and a turtle, and he’s so in love with all of them that his eyes had started watering when Sanha had asked. He learns that his favourite colour used to be blue, but since they were the same colour as his new medication, he’s started to prefer yellow. Sanha learns by his own deduction that all these things have resulted in his sheer exhaustion, which had, over time, become less and less obvious. When Sanha asks him about this, he blushes, says he’s a had a lot of help from some friends, which had, in turn, made Sanha red all the way up under his hair.

Sanha learns a lot of things, but the most important thing he learns is his _name._ Knowing it meant he no longer had to refer to him as _sleepy boy_ or _the eighth passenger_ or anything in between.

Now, Sanha got to call him Minhyuk.

 

(A few weeks later, when Minhyuk greets him with a kiss instead of a wave, Sanha would learn he liked calling him Boyfriend a lot more, though).

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr at [softsocky](http://softsocky.tumblr.com/)!!! let me know what you thought <3 ilu  
> i gifted this to seal bc she's my gran


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